


[Take The Poison]

by liseuse



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-31
Updated: 2010-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-09 20:05:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liseuse/pseuds/liseuse





	[Take The Poison]

  
**[take the poison.]**

_Oh shit oh shit oh shit_, Pansy runs as fast as she can through the undergrowth, her wand hand throbbing with magic as she struggles to keep control of her shield spell, _just another few yards, another few, it'll all be over soon. There are order members there, there are, there are, there have to be_. She stumbles, catches her footing again, and carries on, her lungs heaving and her breath staccato against the sounds of the night. Deceptive and quiet and all too worrying, not even the sounds of birds or of quickfire spells ricocheting out like bullets, just ... silence and worry and fear, and the sound of her heart thumping in her ears.

[crash. fire. bang. and then ... done.]

Another battle over and done with. Another battle fought and the ultimate conclusion left until another time. Injuries and successes. People lost and people hurt and families ruined. An argument round a table as people downed coffee or firewhiskey and the smell of cigarettes and fear and relief filled the room. The tangible longing for bed, for normal Sunday evenings and a crossword or a dinner out and the wish that this had all never had to happen. Undercurrents of trust and mistrust sidling round the room and creeping into conversation and the worry, _constant and never ending_, that this conversion would never be believed. The desire to proclaim, stand up on the table and say that she wasn't her parents, wasn't her friends, that half her friends were in this room, that she wasn't who she had been in school. And then the bald truth. That none of them were. Instead she sat back, her hand under the table, holding Draco's and clinging on tightly as the roles of the dead were read out, as they were given their place in history. Hero or Villain. Hoping, and not hoping, to hear the names of those they knew and knowing _oh that dreadful knowing_ that even if the names they knew were to be read out, that these deaths were confirmed, that they'd have to sit silent. Take their grief elsewhere and mourn in private. That the hero of the hour would not tolerate a tear for those they fought against, would not appreciate that those had been the people there for six years, for deaths and entrances and endless afternoon teas. That these were the enemy and deserving of no compassion.

[a world apart in time and space.]

Hermione sees her sitting, head in her hands, on that tricky step that threatened to send those deemed unworthy into the pits of the house and to never let them free again. The steps knew the blood as well as any amateur genealogist, and she thought, weren't they all amateurs now.

"Stop staring Granger."

Her voice less harsh than it could have been. Muddied with grief and tears and shaky with a lack of sleep.

"I wasn't." Then smiled ruefully. When did she start lying. When did her nice existence as the daughter of Middle England and two bastions of society descend to this. The daughter of killers sitting on steps and someone with that mark in the kitchen, whispering into the ear of the Boy Who Lived, and a werewolf in the dining room trying to decode a scroll that could, for all they knew _and oh wasn't that precious little these days_ be about the best ways to make elf wine.

"You were. Staring at the girl who just lost two of her best friends and is wondering how many more will die."

As Pansy stands, Hermione moves forwards. Traps her on the stairs and takes her shoulders with both hands. "Shut up." And kisses her. Hard and fast, as if the world would come down any second now.

[take the pity.]

And then, an end. Peace. Freedom. And no one knows what to do with it. Parties in a lacklustre manner, and avoids the people they kissed and shagged and made come, silently _oh so silently_ in hide-outs and ruined houses, churches and castles. That they obliviated members of the public with and whose magic is as familiar as the feeling of a hot bath or the sound of tea pouring from the pot. Because that, right there, is a reminder that they didn't die. They are still alive. And well, and uninjured, and scarred on the inside and the out. That they will carry on living, be carried off by mundane and meaningless illness, that they will get jobs, have families and pretend they don't remember night after night of running scared and pointing wands at people, because that is too much to bear. They are young, so young, and they have done so much.

[hurry up and wait]

Her hand still hurts when it rains and she's walking down the streets of the city. When she catches herself looking cautiously round corners, and her hand sliding into her pocket so she can grab her wand if she needs to. When she's sliding back into last night's dress, just early enough that she can go home and shower and change and show up to the office, the picture of efficiency and perfection, and when she sees people she thinks she used to know. When she sees someone's face on someone else and when she thinks about those she has lost. It aches and her magic feels different, is off kilter occasionally, and backfires _sharp and like an electric shock_ when she is trying to do something simple. As if the killing spells are now easier than a simple alohomora or wingardium leviosa. Those spells she had mastered before she came to school, and pretended not to know so she could learn them again _learn them better, make them stronger and more painful_. The spells that gave away, as easily as ill-fitting robes and the occasional biro, just who was who and who came from where and who would be an easy target for a jinx in the hallway because they hadn't been learning to defend themselves since birth. Draco had once said that the muggleborns needed those spells throwing at them because otherwise how would they ever learn that magic is in the blood, that you should reach for a wand before throwing a punch. She laughs now to think of that, after seeing Draco punching his way through the guard and Potter felling Voldemort with a gun. A truly muggle and non-magical gun. Hermione had said, afterwards when they were shaking against each other, Pansy's back to the wall and her knickers halfway down her thighs, that she hated guns, wished they had all been banned years ago. Pansy had laughed and pointed out that if that had happened they would still be throwing ineffective curses at someone who still wasn't human enough to suffer from them.

[and then. A thousand years later.]

Hermione sees her sitting, head in her hands as she laughs herself hysterical as Draco tells a joke he heard from Neville. Sees her light another cigarette and take a sip of her drink. She slides her coat off silently, and kicks her shoes off in the hall. Takes the tulips out of their bag and padding into the kitchen in tight-clad feet, waves for them to carry on, puts them in a vase, pours a glass of wine and sits, on Pansy's lap. Leaning down she kisses her, a gentle kiss, a reminder that she's home and that dinner is going to be stir fry and that after that they will go to bed and revel, _because they are still revelling in this_, in making as much noise as they want. And if either of them sheds a tear afterwards for those that will never do this again, then the other will know they have done the same on countless nights.  



End file.
